


Silver in the Sewer.

by spookylives



Series: Knowing my monster: a transformative twist on evil endings. [2]
Category: IT (1990), IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 1990 Pennywise, 2017 Pennywise, Other, Out of Character Pennywise (IT), TwoCents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 09:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20256121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookylives/pseuds/spookylives
Summary: In the year 1958, Pennywise was defeated by the Loser's club. Three years later, he finds his recovery is slowed but he has a plan for the inevitable return of his enemies. Tasked with another of his kind, Pennywise finds that revenge will not come easy. His successor has a mind of its own.( Dynamics between 1990 and 2017 Pennywise.)





	Silver in the Sewer.

**Author's Note:**

> This story has a lot of inferring, a lot of wordplay and the like. I hope it's legible, or at the very least enjoyable. It has been rocking around my brain for a while now. Your opinions are welcomed and encouraged.

When the original made its successor, it did so in a manner that was not dissimilar to an architect crafting a pillar. It gave it what it had needed to stand on its own, crafting it from the material that was otherwise lying useless and unprocessed. When It made its successor, it had done so with the keen purpose of creating an imperfect replica of itself, an Adam to its very own Michaelangelo. It would not give it it's best parts, it knew, but it would give it the very spark that had carried it from the dawn of its creation until now, the shallow if not startling exhale of life. When its successor realized it was no longer nothing, when it tore itself away from the fleeting orange lights from its creator, the first thing it knew was pain. A pain that was as white as it was absolute and dreadful. And like all living things in this world, the successor was born alone.

**\- X - **

  


Pennywise had known fear before, but it had been a dull almost retroactive ache. It was a feeling now that bared the most resemblance to a wound healed and scarred over. It was an experience he could have sworn he had left long ago in the hallows of this planet’s soil, an experience that was perhaps etched into the scorched earth of inner Derry where it had made his landing. But to have such an inclination in the year 1958, a year stretched far away from his awakening and Maturin, the thought seemed nearly impossible to grasp. Yet, despite his seeming disillusionment and his outrage, here he was. Here he was fleeing the inner tunnels of the sewer like the rats who scurried through the pipes and grey water. Here he was nursing a wound that seemed to ooze not blood but the very inner workings of his own brain matter. 

_ It thrust its fists against the post-- _

The clown, or rather, what was left of it, began to stagger deeper into the inner workings of the pipeline that stretched just below Derry's town hall. If there were any eyes around to see it, they would catch the fledgling remains of a spider's pinchers creaking from the corner's of the red lips. A large and rather ugly burn mark seemed to simmer against the clown's bulbous forehead, creating a thick texture of ooze that trickled down to its frilly collar in ropes. The red pompoms began to seep into the texture of the yellow suit, melting there like the gumdrops you get in a character ice cream. 

_ \---yet it still insists it sees--- _

Children. Children had done this. Children no higher than the average schoolboy and not even a quarter of his weight. Children to whom Pennywise had devoted every second to learning and adapting to, shaping their fears out like the features of a Greek god's likeness out of hammered marble. As a creature of vanity, he found it hard to pinpoint the exact measure of fault but it had to have been there. He had errored somehow, overstepped some poorly drawn line or overlooked some extremely important detail. This, the year of 1958, was supposed to be a year as any other had been. He had awoken as he always had done, fed as he was accustomed to, and yet the girl with the flaxen hair had still managed to pierce a hole in his skull with a mere slingshot. Yes, there was a mistake made here, human children were made to be consumed. Perhaps he had not eaten enough beforehand. Perhaps humans had adopted some second wind of evolution since his last hibernation._ Perhaps the turtle had-- _

-_ -the ghost. It thrusts its fists against the post and still insists it sees the ghost. _

Painfully, he admitted that whatever it was that he or the universe had done wrong, it didn't matter now. What mattered now was that he was alive and still relatively cognitive. While Bill Denbrough sliced his palm open and asked Stan to do the same, Pennywise decided that he would need something to not only heal but to energize. Not just for a bit of defense, of course, a part of him figured that was out of the question now. But for something more expensive in might, something that would create energy. Without really taking the time to reason for an alternative, he rounded the corner that would lead to the pipeline that bled the sewer water out to the bogs. There, under the bridge that lifted over a long-abandoned logging company, lied town drunk Terrence Mccain. Mccain had made that spot his new sleeping place for the last three weeks, and the booze was nursing him to near unconsciousness. Pennywise had saved him there as a rare midnight treat, the human equivalent to the fat piece of Cheesecake a housewife might keep in the back of the fridge. _ We all need our pick-me-ups and cheat days, after all. _When Mccain died, when he was consumed, only the volunteers at the soup kitchen would take notice of his absence. 

** \- X - **

When the successor arrived, it did so with the false assumption that it inhabited a world of water. From what it could see, this was a world of dark and dreary grey matter, a world with as much density as inhibition. The concept of oneness, the feeling one has towards their body was completely foreign to it. In fact, the very idea of existence was a notion entirely out of the reach of comprehension. All it knew was that: 

_ I must breathe. _

But the word_ breathe _was replaced by a more primal impulse, an impulse that rabbits feel when they see the fox. It is a feeling that tells infants to cry, a feeling that compels the birds to nest and roost in the windowsills. 

_ I must live. _

Now, this was a concept it could understand. Without thinking about the ins and outs of the word _ live _, it thrust itself from the pond of its creation. If it had the leisure to notice, it would smell the rot and decay of the sewers. It would hear the runoff of last night's rain, feel the chill of mid-October and shiver at it. All these observations, while entire and absolute, blurred into one coherent overload of sensation. It could detect sound, but could not hear it. It could recognize images, but could not see. All this was enough to send the successor into a panic. If it had skin, it would grow clammy. If it had a chest, it would rise and fall with each ragged breath. Instead of that, the successor only seemed to stir and rampage on the surface of the water. The noise it made was something akin to a chainsaw revving its engine, an ugly noise, a grating sort of screech that seemed to get more gravelly the more it went on. While it had no body, it seemed to have friction. It was here that the successor took its first blinding steps into realization. Movement made disharmony, disharmony made sound. Sound came from water. 

" Come now. Enough of that shit." 

The voice came from about a dime's throw away from the tantrum in the water. It was the voice of a man whose been boozed out his mind and itching for another drink. It was hardly the kind of voice one wants to hear in the throes of a panic, but the successor hadn't the luxury to think over something like that. The stirring stopped and the water seemed to distill long enough for Pennywise to recognize the shape and distinguish it. To him, the successor looked a lot like orange Christmas lights stringing themselves amongst the water. He recognized this as a figment not entirely dissimilar to himself. It was different, of course, but not entirely foreign. A good sign, if anything. For a moment, he dared himself to feel relieved, but he kicked himself for that. Bringing another of his kind into this dimension was no easy feat, but it was a possibilty given the right climate. Mentally, he had convinced himself to push away the thoughts and memories of the prior three years. The humiliation of defeat, his brutal recovery and the failure to bring about a successor two times before. _ Three times the charm. _ The clown, kneeling down atop the concrete slab of the ravine, touched the tips of his fingers to the water. 

" I hate repeating myself."

_ "I hate repeating myself." _

The voice that echoed back to Pennywise was eerily similar to the first, its only difference being a few croaks that lingered on the vowels and pronunciations that joined the words. For a brief moment, the successor understood the connection between communication and thought. The realization was like a child learning the alphabet, a deaf man turning up his hearing aid. All this wonder was lost when the successor was finally able to gain a visual on his host. What he saw first was a mound of red and white. In time he would note that the white had intrusions of red. A pair of eyes, a nose, a mouth. In its mind, the shape that the clown had taken was pure perfection. There was a touch of envy that accompanied this observation, envy that made the successor feel as if it were empty. It took note of the legs, the arms, and torso, all brilliant amalgamations in the interest of function.

_ I must have these things. To live, I must look like that. _

The clown pressed his hand deeper into the water, the gloves staining to an opaque gray.

" I don't have time for this, Jr. C'mon, get your ass in gear."

_ " I don't have--Enough---to get ass in gear." _

These words were said in the exact manner they were spoken, an eery tape recording playback of the original speaker.

"Well, Jr the world ain't your oyster. Get over here."

_ " --shit." _

" You can say that again." Pennywise rustled his hand in the water. "C'mon and take a form. Easy as pie."

_ "I don't--have pie." _

Pennywise, who had for quite some time assumed he was a pinnacle of patience, nearly screamed. Surely something as ethereal and powerful could not be so childish. 

“ That’s a metaphor, Jr.” 

_ “ ---a metaphor.” _

“ Yes a fucking metaphor, you’ve got it. We’ll send you to the university of Maine come Monday. Now take form.”

_ “I don’t have pie---I don’t have a metaphor. The world ain’t your oyster.” _

  


For the second time in his existence, Pennywise felt anger. There was an instance where the anger felt like something outside of his control, a passing fancy of some omnipresent God that made things like rage a second nature. But at the very same time, he felt something that could only be named as disrespect. Here he was, the eater of worlds, being told off by a couple of Christmas lights in a shit hole. The hands that had once rested so casually in the water had turned themselves to talons, the fingers snarled into a grip of scales that looked like they had lept from the pages of Lovecraft. His face, once placid and white, had revealed itself to be the likeness of an old hag, a witch straight from the ballads of a Dutch fairytale. Despite being quite lost in the throes of a new passion, he couldn't help but notice he held a body in his hands. There was weight here in his grip, a physical presence.

" AND WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I WAS GIVING YOU OPTIONS?!"

The successor, despite his previous smarts and wits, had done as he asked and taken a form. It was hardly anything to write home about, the arms and legs seemed to dangle like cotton sheets on the line and the skin was nothing but a black tarp. But it was a physical form, a body that could be molded, moved and manipulated. Yes, even now he could feel the somber recognition of muscles falling slack and weak. That tantalizing aroma of fear, the soft spike of adrenaline before the jump, that's what he smelt now. He lifted his head to it, craning the hag's head so that the spill of gray hair leaped from its place as if from a faucet. How glorious it was to be feared again, he found himself longing for the previous century. The century of simplicity, the century of fear. 

" _ Enough _ ." Jr. croaked. " _ Enough of that--" _

"You see, Jr. I have not brought you here to be your friend. " The voice was that of the clown's again, a sound that seemed to bring the successor some form of relief as its arms went tense with recognition.

"_ You--brought---myself---here---for--a metaphor? _"

The elder gave out a laugh. It was a big bellowing sound, a roar that bounced back and forth off these stones walls like a breeze on a beach. Shallowly, Jr. realized he hated this sound. 

" Now aren't you cute?"

Jr didn't respond at first. In the moment it takes a thought to start, it had transformed its blank face to that of the clown. The red lips seemed to turn upwards into a grimace without its knowledge.

_ " The world ain't your oyster." _

" Smart too. What a combo." Pennywise grinned, returning once again to the form of the clown. It was only then that the successor realized the vibrancy of the color of his suit. It was the brightest color it had ever seen, a shade it had only now realized existed. Perhaps, this world had more to it than water than grey. Perhaps this color existed in places other than this thing. 

" C'mon now, big boy. We've got a hell of a lot to discuss and about twenty-four years to do it. " 

Without a hint of care or precaution, the clown tossed his successor to the floor, dragging him behind him like a train on a wedding dress. As Jr was carried off, he was able to recognize that the silver spots floating on the top of the water were not solid but reflective. Their real source came from a grated storm drain that was just overhead. It was here, in the dingy remains of Derry's sewer, the successor saw the light the full moon had cast before it ducked its head back into the clouds. Though it had not the words to describe it, Jr., found this sight was marvelous. 

Jr had the wildest impulse to force its face through those rusted grates and get a proper look. Was the light harmful? If Jr tried, could it create an appendage long enough to reach the light’s source? All these thoughts were dashed when Jr caught sight of the grinning corpse of Sally Mayhew, the drug store pharmacist who had been Pennywise's last meal. These thoughts of curiosity were replaced by the primal ones that had awakened him from his sleep. 

_ I must live. _


End file.
